Breaking the C’s Cherry
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother;
The post-Hawyes wasteland that is the Uni C’s team has felt like the rear end of a high paying sub at the hands of his whip wielding Dom Mistress in the last few weeks. It’s raw, battered and glowing red from shame. Spanked at Rostrevor, nipple clamped by Windsor garden and rogered with a blunt instrument by Mt Barker we were in need of a kiss on the cheek and a reach-around by the goddess of football. This Saturday O my brothers she rained her golden shower of pity upon us.
Lets face it, we’re a rag tag, mish-mash, sticky-taped together outfit, made up of Hawyse’s slops (me) and a few B’s rejects (Kieron) and some newly recruited yoof. Kieron is now our gaffer – and after testing out his experimental (mental being the takeaway word) formation last week against Rostrevor he has decided on a more conservative approach for this week’s fixture v Woodside. ‘I’d rather win 1-0 and not concede any stupid goals’ is his inspiring mantra. The team is well up for it. Matt Mostak is amped, talking pre game football clichés like he’s just smoked some good shard, while Jon George, Ollie and Tsirbas ignore warm up to talk in code about their shady dealings the night prior. Even Patrick, normally a void of existential despair is optimistic. In the following 90 minutes we would take Kieron’s highly detailed, well thought out and inspired directions and ignore them completely.
Facing us are the ugliest mountain men I’ve seen since I last stepped foot in Mount Barker. Woodside’s Scottish midfielder literally has no teeth and is talking in some guttural Trainspotting gibberish to his orc followers. We start well pushing forward quickly Michael breaking up the right wing, where he is brought down for what will be the 50th time by left back yokel ‘Billy’. Soon after, he is again swiped from behind by the hapless idiot child and it’s a penna. Alex steps up (I think it was Alex but he’s hard to recognise when he’s out of hi viz) to take it. The big tiling merchant ambled towards the spot as a lucky gust of wind takes a miasma of alcohol oozing from his pores into the goalkeeper’s eyes temporarily blinding him and allowing the ball to dribble over the line. 1-0. Things are looking good as we control the ball, playing some decent football. Michael is weaving rings around the Woodsiders, Ollie is find space on the right and Jon George is passed out still drunk on the side-line. Billy is gifting us a lot of free kicks outside the box that are being expertly curled in by me but failing to be converted by Alex. I lump a long shitty ball (I know, i know you fucking smart ass) as far as I can in the general direction of Harry, he dribbles, falls over, gets up, falls over again, re adjusts his samurai pony-tail thing then slots it. 2-0. But our celebrations are short lived as we brain fade on a corner allowing one of the mountain men to head home. 2-1. Half time.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day.
Mostak’s cliché ridden half time speech has reignited our passion and we retake the field filled with the will to get out of his earshot. My drug addled mind is fading here and some details may be fuzzy – needless to say Harry probably dribbled their entire team and scored another one, Billy probably gave away another free kick and the Mountain men pulled another one back just to spite Kieron. My aging frame could take it no more and I was subbed but not before witnessing the big man Patrick poach a nice goal from a penalty box scramble – 4-2. We lost some grip on the game (coinciding with my absence – just sayin) as the Woodies (with the aid of their chromosomally challenged supporters) rallied against us. I got a bit bored and after giving their whiny right winger a bit of lip checked my phone and watched a bit of the AFL next door, but I did manage to catch our best goal of the day being scored by their geriatric centre back who caught hold of a wayward cross from somebody and nodding it into the old onion bag. Jon George woke up and was slowly subbed on. He’s not been the same since returning from the Nam, he’s got the thousand yard stare common to men who have spent time in the bush. The bush Jon spent time in however cost him a penicillin shot and hasn’t retuned his calls – nevertheless he’s back and hungry for goals. Unfortunately none are forthcoming this week for the former star of the Oxford First XI. I think someone else scored, then Harry probably got another one to chalk up his hat trick, then they scored another one. But these are merely boring details as the final whistle blows and the reality that we’ve broken our season’s cherry with a stunning 6-3 victory sinks in. Re-inspired, the young uns are smiling pimply smiles as we elderly take them by the hands leading them back onto the field to take part in the most ancient of rituals – the forming of a circle, and the heralding of victory by singing the greatest worst song ever written. That’s It.
And gentlemen in Adelaide now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.